Emotions
by JilyEvotter19
Summary: A series of drabbles, each about an emotion felt by someone in the wizarding world. .:YenGirl has provided me with lots of ideas and inspiration so a lot of credit goes to her:.
1. Heartache

She misses him. It's as simple as that, really. Every step she takes, every breath she sighs, every word she utters - it is all punctuated by pain. The pain of missing him.

There she is, living under the many roofs and turrets of Hogwarts, while he is lying in a tent in the middle of nowhere, on the hunt to find and destroy whatever it takes for him to kill Voldemort. She is no doubt more comfortable than him, even with all punishments and tortures the thrice-accursed Carrows inflict on the pupils. He is obviously deeper in despair than she is, but she assumes that he probably doesn't even think of her, which is one less burden to bear, she thinks.

She, however, thinks of him all the time. Cries for him at night. His words - the words he always spoke to her during their delightful time together - echo in her mind, like some long-lost ghost. The only way she sees him now is through her dreams. Out of ten nights, she dreams of him for seven nights, and has nightmares of the war for three nights. It's like that. Monotonous. Repetitive. Always the same. Herself rushing at him, arms outstretched, her face breaking out into a wide grin. Him embracing her, telling her he loves her, that he'll always stay with her, until the very end.

But of course she cannot let anyone know that, not even Luna or Neville. She has to stay strong. For herself, for her friends, for the Order, for all the people fighting.

For him.


	2. Hope

Hope. That one word captures the sensation being experienced by everyone in the wizarding world, everyone who is fighting against Voldemort. They all feel it, yet they all fear it. For if their hopes rise too high, the disappointment will be too sore to bear if they lose against the most evil wizard in the world. Yet hope is there: present, existent, burning in their hearts, a small bright flame, much like a candle in the sense that if it is extinguished, the darkness will take over and envelope everyone. It is the one thing that keeps them going, it spurs them on to fight, fight, fight till they are exhausted from fighting; to fight till they are bleeding. Every morning they wake up, feel hopeful, and during the course of the day the height of hope wavers - yet at night they go to bed, replenished with more vigour, with more hope. Hope and faith. Faith in The Boy Who Lived, faith in the Order, faith in all the millions, the countless millions, who are fighting. Fighting, dying, killing ... everything is done with hope in their hearts. And yet, if this hope is eradicated, there will be nothing to stop them from drowning in their hopelessness.

And that is why they depend on their hope so much.


	3. Guilt

He feels guilty. Ever so guilty. Wherever he goes, there is a nagging in his mind - a nagging that continuously tells him that he is responsible for all the destruction and the killing. The murders. The fighting. The sorrow. The dead. The casualties. The tragedies suffered. The war in general. It is like a rock he has to carry on his head, with all the weight it brings upon him. It should have been a rock, he thinks, because he can pick up a rock and throw it away. But this sack of guilt cannot be thrown away. Everyone tells him that it is not his fault: his friends, his Weasley family, his professors ... But he does not believe them. He _cannot_ believe them. There is guilt sewn into every sight of massacre he sees. It is mixed in every image of carnage. It lingers in every place of warfare he inspects. For it is his duty now to go around the country and help out.

This only increases his guilt.


	4. Loving Hate

She hates him. Hates him right down to the core. Despises the way he ruffles up his hair, the way he always carries that blasted Snitch around, the way he shows off on the Quidditch pitch. She detests the way he invents all sorts of ridiculous nicknames for her whenever he catches sight of her, the way he constantly asks her out in the most outrageous ways, the way he frequently enquires, "Why? Why won't you go out with me? Why do you hate me so much? What have I done?" _A lot of things_, she thinks. She loathes the way he does all that. And all for her, he always claims. But she knows better. She knows that he can't bear the fact that she's the only girl in the school who is immune to his supposed charms. She knows that he is only asking her out for the thrill of the chase. She knows, too, that she is only like another challenge to him: a conquest. Conquer her, and he wins. Fail to conquer her, and she emerges victorious. She knows it all.

And yet she can't help but love hating him.


	5. Sorrow

All she feels now is sorrow. Of course, anyone would feel endless sorrow if their loved one died recently. But the sorrow she feels now is not the kind that arises as a result of the passing away of a loved one. No, the sorrow she feels now is that of a mother whose son has died. Indeed, Fred's death was so sudden, so unexpected, so unpredictable - she didn't know what to feel at first. He was always the laughing one, the joking one, the pranking one ... She feels so empty, so hollow. She knows she _must_ stay standing for the rest of her family, of course - for Arthur, for Bill, Charlie, Percy, Ron, Ginny, even Harry and Hermione and most of all, George - but she feels as if she is a tree and a huge root has been torn away from her. Incomplete. Not intact. That is the sensation she experiences.

Now she knows what a tree must feel like when someone cuts a branch from it with a heavy axe, which is so like the hand of death.


	6. Grief

He shivers. It is a chilly night and he is wearing very little over his shirt - just a light sweater. Grief overwhelms him in waves of the saddest sensation as he nears the grave he is visiting; the grave that stands out in the graveyard because there are so many flowers on it, supplied there regularly courtesy of dozens of doleful visitors; the grave that makes his stomach lurch with mourning. It is, of course, Fred's grave. The one grave that sends the tears spurting out of his eyes before he can register the bitter saltiness of sorrow. This is the grave that marks the spot where his other half is buried six feet below the ground, lifeless, unknowing of the pain, the agony, the sheer and utter anguish his going into the void has caused everyone: his parents, his siblings, his friends ... his twin. His twin, who is now almost drooping because of the grief inhabiting his heart: grief at the death that haunts him incessantly and also, grief at the fact that he has never got to say the most important thing in the world to him: that he loves him. The redhead whose heart is beating strongly now, contrary to his twin's heart, has never thought he would have to part with his fellow prankster before his time. He has always imagined that the two would die at the identical same moment. He has never paused, never stopped to reflect on the state things would be in if either one of the twins died and left the other one in despair.

In the deathly silence that hangs over the graveyard, enveloping it, the shivering, alive twin murmurs a last loving message to his sleeping counterpart as he kneels down near the headstone, before standing up, taking one last look at the grave and heading back home.

"I love you."

* * *

**Author's Note:** A line in this chapter was inspired by something _TheHuntersMoon_ said to me.


	7. Regret

He is bending over as the overwhelming regret washes over him like a huge roller of a wave on the ocean. The pain is physical - every ounce of that agonising emotion is grating the fibres of his being in a vicious manner. His nerves are on fire with the flame of the one feeling that he is experiencing every moment these days - regret.

_Why_? Why does he have to be the one who made and still makes all the wrong decisions in his life? He doesn't know what he has done to deserve this. He can't comprehend what he has done to have such tragedies thrust upon him. First he had to deal with the regret - oh, how he has come to abhor that word! - that came with betraying Lily. Dumbledore had made clear the depth of his actions, but the old man had also told Severus that it was not as bad as it would have been had Severus _known_ that Voldemort would kill Lily.

Still, that does not do anything to quench his regret. His extreme regret. He regrets so much nowadays - everything that's a part of his life now, he regrets. Going to the Dark side, joining the Dark Lord, calling Lily that fateful name which broke their friendship into fragments, letting her go, not doing anything when he saw her with that Potter ... everything. Tormenting Muggles with the Cruciatus Curse on the orders of the Dark Lord ... Spitting that foul name - Mudblood - at all the Muggleborns that he is commanded these days to torture for information and for fun ... he regrets almost his whole life.

And he regrets that Lily never forgave him. Lily. The love of his life. The most beautiful girl in the world. How he aches to hold her in his arms, to tell her of his ... affection? No, his love goes deeper than that. Even _love_ is too mild a word for what he feels for Lily.

And she has never returned those feelings. Ever.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Thanks to _YenGirl_ for giving me the inspiration behind this chapter.


	8. Exhaustion

She sighs for what seems to be the umpteenth time as she wearily tells her oldest to _please_ stop tormenting his sister with spooky demonstrations of ghosts. Her second one seems to be engrossed in making his two stuffed dinosaurs have an epic battle. All she can think of is the mess that will follow: a ripped dinosaur, sawdust settling on the floor and feathers everywhere. The other red-haired boy, whose knitted sweated has a big green R on it, is trying to get the bibliophile of the family to pay attention to him.

She doesn't even want to _imagine_ what those two mayhem-inducing twins are sure to be up to. However hard her body protests and commands her to just flop down on the sofa, she ignores it and makes her way to the kitchen where, sure enough, the completely identical - right down to the last freckle - twins are bent over a huge jar of chocolate chip cookies which she made earlier on in the day.

She sighs and braces herself for a battle of words.

Half an hour later, all her children are fast asleep in bed and her husband is in the bathroom, getting ready for bed after an exhausting day. (She isn't the only one who is driven nuts by the kids. Her poor husband gets his fair share of the torture.)

As part of the usual night-time check-up on the kids, she slowly and soundlessly creeps into the first bedroom, which is shared by the two oldest boys. The dragon-loving one is snoring, lying on his stomach, and the eldest is lying spread-eagled on his back. She chuckles very quietly to herself at the familiar positions of the two, and bends down to kiss each boy in turn. Next, she sneaks into the twins' bedroom, where both are curled up in the exact same positions, facing each other. The faces that are brimming with mischief and gleeful peals of laughter when they're awake are rendered sweet, angelic and innocent in sleep. Feeling a surge of pride for the two pranksters, she pecks their cheeks with the lips of a loving mother, noticing as she does so the smiles on their slumbering faces. No doubt they were discussing something pleasant (and naughty) before bed.

Finally she goes to the third bedroom, where her youngest son is spread across the bed diagonally. She hurries towards him to adjust his position, smiling because this is the routine every night. After kissing him, she wanders over to the next bed towards her third son and spots the three extremely heavy books lying on his bedside table. This discovery only increases her immeasurable affection for him.

Eventually she retires to her own room, where her youngest child and only daughter lies on a cot. The loving mother regards her as a jewel. The tiny girl is sleeping soundly, her waves of short but beautiful auburn hair on her head almost shining in the dark. "Half of Hogwarts' boys are going to be chasing you, darling," the young mother whispers under her breath, feeling satisfaction in the thought of her daughter's prettiness and a pang of sadness, because she knows all of them are going to grow up and leave the nest someday. "But you're still a baby, aren't you? My baby," she whispers to the sleeping girl, whose eyelids flutter open to reveal chocolate-coloured orbs within. She is silent and doesn't make a sound, just stares up at her gazing mother.

Seeing that her husband isn't back from the bathroom yet and isn't going to be disturbed by her quiet talk, the smiling mother strokes her daughter's soft cheeks.

"This morning I was ready to send you all to Hogwarts there and then. Now I wouldn't trade you for all the Galleons in Gringotts."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Thanks heaps to the fantastic _YenGirl_ for providing me with the idea behind this chapter.


	9. Excitement

Shivering with sheer excitement, he exits his office, holding an oddly-shaped package under one arm. This, he knows, contains a gardening hoe, one that his boss deemed faulty enough to throw away. A slight surge of embarrassment wells up inside him as he recalls how sneakily he had tiptoed to the bin and pulled out the gardening tool from within.

His boss has told him that a simple Kicking Charm had been placed on this hoe, rendering it as useless and frightening for Muggles. _And rendering it entertaining and fun for me!_ he thinks, chuckling as he reflects how much like a giddy child on Christmas he is acting like.

He strokes the package reverently. He doesn't care that his salary is so low: he would be happy to be paid even twenty Knuts a week (which everyone knows is so little it can't even feed a hen) in exchange for tinkering with such fascinating and intriguing objects.

As he reaches home and opens the front door, he hears the familiar greeting.

"Arthur dear!"

His wife comes running up to him, a dishcloth in one hand and a recipe book in the other. Standing on her tiptoes, she reaches up and places a kiss on his lips.

"How was work, darling?"

"Oh, it was great! For starters, the _strangest_ object came in - a big thing called a - a - what was it? Ah yes, a microsurf! No, it wasn't surf ... it was something similar ... a wave, yes - a micro_wave_! Molly dear, it was brilliant! And then ..."

And he continues to chatter on about his work while his lovely wife flies from here to there in a hurry to get lunch ready.

But never once does he mention the hoe he has brought home. He knows she disapproves of him fiddling and messing around with Muggle objects - but it isn't as if they're unsafe or anything. She just disapproves of his unhealthy obsession, that's all.

He finishes lunch quickly and gets up.

"I have to go, Molls, dear. Got some work left to do in the garage."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thanks to _YenGirl_ for her amazing idea.


	10. Smugness

**Author's Note:** Really, Yen, what would I do without you?

* * *

Ah, if ever the stars have aligned in their correct positions and favoured those unfortunate souls in an aspect of life, it is this. That fate has bestowed upon the noble flame of Hogwarts such a true Seer, such a brilliant creature as herself, is a Sign itself. It is a Sign of how she is to pass on her wisdom to those inexperienced disciples for them to master over the course of their lives. The truth that is etched into the Inner Eye has long since foreseen the triumph that will, one day, be hers: the victory that comes with having done her deed, having fulfilled the task she is set for this life - the job of rendering them true Seers.

Her Inner Eye is the farthest-seeing of all the Inner Eyes that people across the seven oceans have been blessed with, and she knows it.

And yet ...


	11. Chagrin

She's a fraud, and she knows it. A huge fraud. Pretending is what she's best at. Yes, she knows that she cloaks her sensations of inadequacy through delusions and lies, but she is forced to be honest to herself.

She is a fibber and an amateur, and that is plain to her after all those strained hours of sitting in her classroom at midnight with only the light of a candle to keep her company and trying to see something - _anything_ - in that glassy orb that stubbornly refuses to stay blank and cloudy.

But now she hears the familiar sound of students tromping up to the tower, and she must keep a Seeing face or all doubts of her deceit in their eyes will vanish.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Again, all credit goes to dear Yen for coming up with the idea! :) Oh, and your Resignation idea is slightly tricky (as you said it would be) so I will re-attempt it when my writer's block has mercifully left me for some time.


	12. Shock

She is watching.

She is there, hidden in the shadows at the top of the staircase, now marred with debris and rubble and the underlying stench of blood.

She is there, her mouth falling slightly apart with disbelief, as the boy reveals the secret Albus and Severus have taken to their graves.

She is there, standing silently as the trio make a final exchange of words. As the girl hugs the boy, and the redheaded one tries to stop him.

She is there, and fear tugs at her heart. She wants to cry out, to stop the bespectacled boy from walking to his doom. She wants, more than anything else in the world, to hold him back from entering the lion's den.

But she can't move. Her entire body is helplessly frozen.

All she feels is shock.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Was watching HP7/2 and almost cried at the part where Harry is with Ron and Hermione before going to the forest. (_Almost _being the key word here: I can't cry in front of my brother, who was contentedly enjoying a slice of creamy cake that was so creamy it was almost sinful, while my heart was aching for the Golden Trio.) Anyhow, I got an idea, and thus you see this chapter fresh out of the oven for you! Can you guess who this is? I know I haven't provided any clues, though.

On another note, thank you so much, all of you, for bringing my review count up to a hundred! *cheers and throws confetti* Special thanks to Yen - my hundredth reviewer!


	13. Pain

It is breaking him from inside. Those green eyes so innocently unaware of the horrors that happened twelve years ago at the hands of Sirius Black, the man who used to be his friend. It feels that his heart shatters into a million fragments again and again, whenever he looks at the messy-haired hero. Every glimpse of the thirteen-year-old brings forth a streak of painful reminiscing flooding back to him. He tries hard not to let his eyes mist as he thinks how much the boy has lost. He has been deprived of a childhood, parents and love.

When he looks at The Boy Who Lived, he ponders over how _detached_ the perceptions he has of him are. One treasure trove of colourful, bubbly memories, which centre around a laughing, happy (and perpetually sticky) baby ... And then - a skinny teenager with too big a burden on his shoulders.

Yet it's downright ridiculous what the most agonising fact of all is. It's silly, really - the werewolf can't expect the Chosen One to recognise him. But it still hurts him to gather no recognition in those emerald orbs ...

* * *

**Author's Note:** Those who guessed correctly that the last chapter was from McGonagall's point of view are _MuggleCreator_, _YenGirl_, _Spiralling-Down_ and _bookfan87_. In particular, I really love how _bookfan87_ delved into the twelfth chapter and analysed it to pieces, resulting in some brilliant guesses. (These include some guesses she PMed me.)


	14. Astonishment

"Mate, there's something I have to tell you."

I sit on the velvety red couch by the fire. "Yeah?"

"I've got a crush on someone," James says in a rush, choking slightly on his hot chocolate.

"Yeah?" I raise my eyebrows. "Who's the lucky guy?"

James throws a cushion at me. "Very funny! Quit messing around, Sirius," he adds. "I'm ser- I'm not joking."

"OK, go on. Who," I say dramatically, waving my hands in the air and accidentally spilling some of my hot chocolate, "is the unfortunate damsel?"

James glares at me as he rubs his sleeve, trying to get rid of the hot chocolate I've spilled on him. "Lily Evans."

This time I spill the entire cupful of my drink on my best mate.

As he goes running around the Gryffindor tower and yelling colourful obscenities at me for nearly scalding him, I stare into the fire, open-mouthed, wondering what the world has come to.

I mean, _seriously_, James Potter has a thing for Lily Evans?

I'd pay big money to see them married happily ever after.


	15. Serenity

Some people, when they look at her, think things along the lines of "dirty-haired, Nargle-obsessing weirdo". Others, when they sight the distinctive mane of blond hair and come in hearing range of that dreamy voice, find themselves - unbidden - envying that aura of calmness she radiates. It is like she is emitting waves of serenity. Always at peace ... like a clear pool in a forest: bright and still as a mirror, yet not sharp. Never sharp. She does everything in her composed way, never rushing, always fluid in her movements. Nothing rushes her, nothing leaves her feeling panicked, nothing frenzies her - not when she is fighting in the Department of Mysteries, not when she is hurling spells and jinxes in the Battle of Hogwarts, not when she is defending the existence of Nargles and Wrackspurts, not when she is being held captive in Malfoy Manor - nothing.

Because she is Luna Lovegood, serene and strong.

* * *

**Author's Note:** All credit for providing me with this idea goes to Yen. I realise she's given me so many ideas, so much inspiration ... It's just wonderful. :)


	16. Remorse

"Hey, Evans, fancy spending the next Hogsmeade trip with me?"

"Shut your trap, Potter," she replies rudely, spinning around and facing the bespectacled boy with loathing etched on her face. Usually she isn't one for being so curt, but the boy is driving her up the wall and _she can't take it any longer_. "If you ask me out one more time I'm going to hex you so hard you won't have any manly bits to boast of."

And then she catches the look on the boy's face and, unbidden, wonders why he doesn't retaliate with a double entendre or a quip like he always does. Has she gone too far?

And why is it that you speak sharply one moment and then regret it the next, after seeing the other person's hurt face, especially if you're Lily and he's James, and it all matters much more than if you weren't?


	17. Nostalgia

He watches the happy family go across the station to where they've parked their fascinating Muggle car. Fiddling with the hem of his jacket, he tries not to let the tears spring forth, because he's twelve and twelve-year-olds never cry because their best mate has left for the holidays and they have to stay with their power-obsessed, maniacal parents.

A cold voice comes from behind him. "Sirius."

He turns around morosely, knowing who he's going to behold, and sees a tall, stately man standing with a regal air around him. The very epitome of pureblood. "Good afternoon, Father," he says tonelessly, because that is what he has been taught and he doesn't want Orion to have an excuse to punish him because he's feeling too nostalgic and sick of everything. He darkly wishes that the concept of Easter was never invented. "Good afternoon, Mother," he adds as Walburga Black appears behind her husband.

Walburga nods and - for the sake of appearances and maintaining a healthy pureblood aura - reluctantly hugs him. It's not the closest or warmest of hugs: it's cold and distant and detached, with no affectionate feelings radiating from either one of the two.

They walk outside the station and go over to a spot near the back end of it where every pureblood who scorns the idea of riding a Muggle vehicle Apparates and Disapparates to and from.

Holding onto Walburga's arm, he Apparates with her and after a few moments of feeling as though he is going to pass out from asphyxiation, he stands before a large manor that is situated in the center of sprawling gardens and magnificent fountains.

"Home sweet home," he mutters dully. "What a joy."

And all the while the homesickness for Hogwarts and the feeling of missing his mates and just the general nostalgia battles on.


	18. Ambivalence

**Author's Note:** I wanted a chapter named Ambivalence to be the fiftieth or the hundredth chapter - you know, mixed emotions being a bit more special than one specific emotion. But I couldn't resist this. I've fabricated all the content of my story _Mixed Feelings_ into this (editing it slightly, of course, so it fits the rhythm and the mood of the theme of _Emotions_). To my new readers, enjoy! To my old ones, rediscover!

* * *

She has mixed feelings about her birthday. On the one hand, it's always fun to get presents. It's nice to watch all her assorted cousins, aunts and uncles stream in through the front door, bearing smiles ("Happy seventeenth, darling!"), grins ("Ooh, an adult now, are we? Better be sure you don't get up to any mischief!") and smirks ("Let's hope you get some sense this year and snog the poor bloke already ..." "Shut up, will you?"). It's endearing to watch her cousins inhale the food her mum has made. It makes her love the family togetherness when she laughs at their rude birthday jokes and ticks the younger ones off for singing, "_Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, you look like a monkey, and you smell like one too ..._"

On the other hand, her birthday falls on the day when, years ago, her best friend's parents died and her uncle was killed. That was the day many others had perished, been murdered trying to fight the most evil man that ever existed. That was the day wizards and witches everywhere experiences heavy losses and deep tragedies and heart-breaking blows.

Something tugs at her heart whenever she glimpses all those teary-eyed faces that are worn by people when her birthday rolls by. Something - she doesn't know what - pulls at her very soul whenever she sights the mournful expressions that mask their faces. She can't bear seeing them so grievous and she tries her best to pull them out of their painful reminiscing. "Hey," she says, "it's OK. They're at rest now." But deep down she knows that the memory of that day is too painful to ignore.

So she's always two halves on her birthday. One half of her is ecstatic and bright at the thought of turning a year older than before. The other half is sorrowful, in respect of all those people who gave their lives for the sole purpose of gaining a better world for the generations to come.


	19. Jealousy

**Author's Note:** Dedicated to Yen, because she's just awesome and has helped me with this story a lot by giving me ideas for chapters. x) I don't know why I'm giving you a jealous Sev, though, Yen, because that'll just make you feel sad. *looks sheepish*

I will be writing a companion piece to this chapter called _Time Of Our Lives_ (Jily one-shot) so keep a lookout for that!

* * *

He looks on as Potter asks the long-awaited question and Lily smiles at him, her face alight with happiness. The other seventh-years watch with bated breath - even though they _know_ what her answer is going to be - as her lips form that one little word that will change everyone's lives forever. It will also shatter him, knocking him down as if he is light as a feather.

He tries to ignore the sinking feeling of despair settling in his stomach, but then the unpleasant sensation stirs within him like the coils of some great, ugly snake as he clenches his fists and grits his teeth. His knuckles turn white; the feeling swirls inside of him, making him feel overwhelmingly sick. It is physical, the nausea. And it increases, increases in pitch and volume and size and pitch-and-volume-and-size and pitchandvolumeandsize until finally it explodes, explodes like a bomb: he can hear the noise in his head, the bang it causes as it goes off, and all that is left is a mass of hundreds of tiny pricks of jealousy gnawing at him, piercing his soul and his body in a way the Cruciatus Curse can never hope to achieve.

Because his first and only love has been torn away from him for good now.


	20. Hurt

_No._

Her words ring loud and clear throughout the Great Hall, reverberating inside his brain, being echoed by his accelerating heartbeat, being accentuated by the intense look of dislike she is giving him, flitting in between his sweaty palms.

_Never, Potter._

He is acutely and most uncomfortably aware of the overly interested expressions the eager onlookers are sporting. He has absolutely no idea why his body is overreacting; all he knows is that the girl standing and fuming in front of him is the first (and, if what his heart tells him, the_ last_) girl he has had more than a flighty crush on (he won't allow himself to think it's the _other_ thing, that huge-crazy-terrifying thing) and she has rejected his offer of a date in a manner that has so clearly indicated her extreme annoyance.

_Not a chance. I'd rather stuff nails down my throat._

And as she storms off, leaving the question, the unavoidable wondering, piercing the air like a needle, he knows they're all eagerly anticipating his reaction. It's a bloody show for them, isn't it? A temporary source of entertainment before something juicer lures them in, a reprieve from their gossipy lives in the form of _his_ love life, isn't it?

He's angry at them and hurt, very hurt, too hurt, by her: she's left him broken. His instinct tells him to run after her and tell her she's special in a way no one else has ever been -

But that vicious, perverse pride kicks in; it comes back to hit him in the arse - he's still too young to realise that pride is left a long way behind as far as his redhead is concerned; and he finds himself running a faux-casual hand through his hair and swallowing to get rid of that damn dryness in his throat.

"Well," he says, and his voice almost cracks - he swallows again, imperceptibly, just in time, "she's a fiery one, isn't she?"

The throng laughs nervously, uneasily, but he knows they're disappointed that he hasn't run after her, spewing out proclamations of that thing he refuses to acknowledge, trying to make himself believe it's something less terrifying.

Really, though, loving that Lily Evans is hard work.

* * *

**Author's Note:** My exams have started and I'm the craziest human to ever walk the earth and I was supposed to be revising Urdu but ended up scribbling this drabble on my book. Not a pretty sight now.


	21. Gratitude

**Author's Note:** This is for Yen, who requested a nice Sev piece. She likes Snarry, but since I don't ship that, a bit of Sev/Lily friendship is the next best thing, eh? *grins* By the way, Yen, I wanted this to be Contentment but got an idea for another version of Contentment so this has resulted in Gratitude. x)

* * *

"You don't know how to play _tag_?"

Her incredulous laugh rings out over the playground; he ducks his head in embarrassment, even though he knows she's not taunting him - she's just surprised.

"Well, I've never played with other kids before ..." he mumbles.

She puts an arm around him, squeezing his shoulders. After years of being accustomed to harshness, he waits for the impending taunting but none comes. "That's OK," she says brightly. "I'll teach you."

And teach him she does. All morning long, they chase each other over the meadows and in the woods, by the large pond and in the playground. He doesn't know how to tell her that he's so grateful for all she has done for him; he doesn't know how to convey to her that it's all because of her that he's become a better person. She has molded him and brought out the best in him, given him the feeling that maybe he's not all that much of a hopeless case. Around her, he is a much better person.

But for now he has to stick with merely smiling up at her. And when she smiles back, her eyes crinkling, he thinks maybe it's the best way.


	22. Conflict

**Author's Note:** An anonymous reviewer, Amber, dropped a review on _Women_ and asked if I could do a gay one. The only canon gay character I can think of is Dumbledore, and since I don't have the creativity to devote an entire one-shot to Dumbledore/Grindelwald quips and Dumbledore's general feelings, I decided to do this. Hope you like it, Amber! And please make an account on FanFiction. It'd be lovely to hear from you properly. x)

Conflict isn't a proper emotion but you can have conflicting emotions, so that's fine, I suppose. Also, since Dumbledore and Griendelwald were friends so long ago, I imagine they'd sometimes use phrases like those prissy boys from Enid Blyton books.

* * *

_Stupid_, he thinks. _Stupid fool_.

He just has to develop alien feelings for his best friend, doesn't he? It will just complicate everything so much more, but his heart doesn't listen to him when he tells it to stop beating ridiculously speedily the moment Gellert comes into his peripheral range of vision.

Gellert greets him with a hug when he comes back from the seaside (his mother thought it would be good to take the family out for a little holiday for two weeks). "Albus," he says, "I've missed you, old chap."

"As have I," he tells him truthfully. In fact, he would lie awake every night thinking of him.

Because his ludicrous heart has tied itself to a person so out of his league and he doesn't even _know_.


End file.
